


Arguments (Between the Intruder and the Sinner)

by Puniyo



Series: Casting Shadows [6]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Mind Games, Obsession, alternative universe, clothed sexual situation, crude language, sort of sequel, stalker feels, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21984214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puniyo/pseuds/Puniyo
Summary: ‘I knew you would recognize me. I knew you could never forget me.’ He hopes he can. He hopes he never will. ‘Call me more, Yuzu.'‘Why do you have to hurt yourself?’ Javier returns with a pristine white towel and a few patches of ice, every corner of the club his marked territory. ‘Do you want to hurt me too?’‘Just one word, Yuzu. Just one word and I’ll do anything you want. Anything.’ A solitary tear falls from the Spaniard’s eyes. ‘You are the one controlling me, Yuzu.’
Relationships: Javier Fernández/Yuzuru Hanyu
Series: Casting Shadows [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1001124
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	Arguments (Between the Intruder and the Sinner)

**Author's Note:**

> Dear all, this is some sort of sequel to [Dialogues](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21670684). I know this is a festive season but it is never inappropriate to have some angst for us to enjoy the good things in life. I'm glad this piece is out and I'll try to go for a happier mood next time. May you enjoy this!
> 
> Disclaimer: This plot is from the pure imagination of the author. Read tags for reading. Art for art's sake.

It is December.

It is December, the last month of the year, the thirty and one days leading to the end of all calamities in the present and a promise of a better tomorrow after the last strike of the clock on the night of New Year’s Eve. It has been unexpectedly warmer for the festive season, the carnage of snow a mere prelude shower, but the promise of rain hung in the morning dew on the maple leaves and the aroma of the air in the night.

Just like now, as Yuzuru sat by the dinner table, the scent humidity infiltrating through the gap of the kitchen window, the subtle tang blending with the trail of green peppercorn and miso of the poached salmon in front of him. The young man takes a bite of the perfectly cooked pearl rice, not a single grain clinging to his bamboo chopsticks, and tender on his teeth. It reminded him of home, the warm bowl on his palm, the steamed medley of carrots and pickled edamame, just as the attentive figure of his mother watching the newest TV drama on the screen of the laptop she had recently bought. It isn’t a recent series, a housewife who starts an affair with her son’s kindergarten teacher (he remembers reading a few positive reviews of the plot and the main couple was also the definition of ‘beauty’ and ‘handsomeness), but it is his own mother that makes him almost want to giggle with the multitude of facial expressions, surprise, disbelief, betrayal, sympathy, all in the span of a few minutes, a young girl in the body of a full grown woman, utterly absorbed in the show that she does not even blink when the phone rings.

Once.

Twice.

‘I’ll pick it up.’ His mother nods apologetically though a new gasp leaves her mouth at the arrival of the next scene. Yuzuru shakes his head, momentarily experiencing being the more mature one in the room, and he reaches for the wireless handset. ‘Hello?’

Complete silence.

‘Hello?’ He repeats, slightly louder this time.

There is still nothing on the other side of the line.

He returns the machine to its charging dock, a shrug of shoulders following immediately. It must have been someone dialing the wrong digits. The young man pirouettes on the balls of his feet, an upright spin on the hard floor instead of on the ice, back to the table, when the intermittent beeps of the device rise in volume again.

‘Hanyu speaking.’

Complete silence. Not even the shadow of a click of tongue.

It takes less than a couple of seconds for the red button to be pressed. Perhaps it was a problem with the reception signal, electronics and their own infallible breakdowns. The screen of the telephone flashes empty and music evades the precinct.

‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

Complete silence. Again.

‘May I know who is calling?’

The sound of silence is as terrifying as its counterpart. It is the melody of something that never comes but it is already there.

‘Yuzuru?’ He jolts at the voice calling him. ‘Is everything okay? Your food will get cold.’ His mother presses pause as the ending credits song rolls, her tone inquiring and worrying at the same time. ‘Yuzuru?’

‘It’s nothing.’ He unplugs the chord from the wall, the two-piece set dimming and switching off abruptly. There is a pulse of joy on cutting the succession of pranks, and yet, the rice is already too hard and the fish too spoiled at the next bite he takes. He quickly swallows everything, bland or overly seasoned, his taste buds beyond paralyzed to appreciate the homemade meal. He murmurs a quick ‘gochisou-sama deshita’, his hands lifting all the barren dishes and utensils.

‘Yuzuru?’

‘I will wash them tonight.’ The smile he flashes is eighty percent sincerity and the remaining twenty of crawling trepidation. ‘The next episode is almost starting. I bet he will ask for the divorce.’

The skin of his fingertips is wrinkled from the warm water, mild lime and ginger detergent nothing but fake promises from not-so-expert advertisements, as he finally settles on his bed, memory foam pillow supporting his neck. He stares at the grey blotch on the ceiling, next to the lampshade, the shape of it between a rabbit and a fox. Sleep greets his eyelids soon, the training that afternoon weighing on his muscles and joints (the fall on the quad Axel tattooed a dark flower on his hip), and he almost drifts to oblivion when his phone vibrates in a waltz rhythm.

Three beats and a stop. Three twizzles and a mohawk. Three cross rolls and a choctaw.

Yuzuru slides the green option on his screen but he dares not to utter a word, the triple meter reserved for only one person. It is complete silence, the same reticence during dinner, neither a step nor a jar of electrical noise.

It is not complete silence though.

He hears the faint, languidly feeble breathing reaching his hears. He wishes he knew not how to spell the name that floods his mouth and stings his tongue.

‘Javi…’

The silence becomes a moan, and the moan morphs into a chuckle, music and discord, provocation and longing.

He misses it.

He does not.

He misses _him_.

He does not.

He really does.

‘Yuzuru, _my Yuzu_ ,’ The rough voice on the other extreme is overjoyed, the ecstatic cry spreading through the hand holding the phone, ‘I knew you would recognize me. I knew you could never forget me.’ He hopes he can. He hopes he never will. ‘Call me more, Yuzu. Yuzu, my Yuzuru. Please, Yuzuru, call me, Yuzu–’

Yuzuru switches off the smart device, all the signals and networks lost. He closes his eyes, pretending that sleep came in a golden carriage to take him away to a faraway kingdom.

It does not come the sedan chair. Not that night.

The sky is not yet greeted by the timid Sun when he wakes up, the chilly drafts assaulting his exposed shins and pulling him out of bed more efficiently than any alarm clock. The last vestiges of twilight is entrenched in the air refusing to concede defeat to time for the first swirls of dawn to be sketched onto the vast canvas above the many cars, canopies, buildings, lightning rods, all that it touches, from here to infinity. Yuzuru’s feet slip into a pair of yellow and orange slippers and his limbs guide him to the bathroom, eyes barely open, somehow an inch of shade darker below them.

The man reflected on the mirror is him, and yet it is also not who he remembers he is. Raven hair, drenched in the shades of night, but disheveled, strands pointing at different directions; irises of sculptured obsidians, but opaque, lost of their translucence; lips thin and dry, drawn into an artist’s line, but pale, life sipping away from each breath and teeth bitten into the flesh.

It is him, and yet not him at the same time.

It is him, Yuzuru thinks, he knows it, and yet he extends his hand to the cloned doppelganger, his fingertips tiptoeing on the crystalline surface, cold, tracing a face as if for the first time, the curve of the mouth, the bridge of the nose, the tickling prickle of the summit of the eyelashes, the creases on the forehead, the one unruly hazelnut curl by the earlobe, the stub on the chin, the–

‘I miss you, my Yuzu.’

The echoed counterpart in the mirror dissolves and morphs into _him_ , into the _matador_ in the black suit and sleek hair, the almond pupils and tanned skin, the Spanish flag on the collar and _that_ smile. The condescending smirk of one who knows of the trap and how to lure the prey.

‘Don’t you mis–’

It is almost automatic the way his hand detaches from the image above the sink, ice that burns and fire that freezes, and he hurls the closest material he can grasp, a cup, his own cup of aurora borealis forged on rice porcelain, to the mirror, toothpaste and brush fallen to the ceramic sink, illusion and reality shattered to a myriad of pieces scattered on the tiled floor.

The approaching footsteps are quick and a knock follows suit. ‘Yuzuru, is everything okay?’

He drops to his knees, shoulders sagging and shivering, the feminine voice forgotten in the barrier by the door. The broken pieces are beautiful, rhinestones plucked from his costumes, prisms from _Origin_ and fractals from _Otoñal_. They are but part of his personal collection, Yuzuru thinks, as he sweeps each and every single fragment to a mount by his feet. A particularly stubborn (and sharp) one halts on its itinerary and it penetrates right at the center of his thumb, the cut not deep, not shallow too, a poodle of red gathering from the under the nail to the palm and leaking to the wrist.

‘What are you doing, Yuzuru!?’

He doesn’t even notice when his mother had entered the bathroom, her silhouette already crouching next to his. The young man tries to hide the laceration but nothing escapes her maternal instincts and the next second, his finger is already being wrapped in a crisp cloth, the ribbon of crimson in the virginal cotton, a stain that he can never erase.

‘Since when are you this clumsy?’

He doesn’t answer, only nods, a slight acknowledgement and apology fused together. The sigh that escapes her lips is of relief even though the blush on her cheeks barely hides her worry and disquietude. Her hands are warm but not sweltering, the same zest of when the spring breeze kissed his closed eyelids, as she wraps the band aid strip on the bruise. She smells of chamomile and lavender blossoms, of melting marshmallows by summer bonfires, of freshly brewed green tea and sweet tamagoyaki.

‘Yuzuru?’

He shakes his head, left and right, left and right, over and over, hands drawn into fists and resting on top of his thighs. He sits on his ankles, head down, the tears welling up his eyes, his vision blurred by the torrid waves that threaten to fall any moment. He swallows the first upcoming sob, down to his stomach to be digested.

‘Yuzuru? Does it hurt?’ His mother sits next to him, like she did all the times he was swimming in the sea of silence of his emotions, waiting, never probing, an anchor for when he drifts to nowhere. ‘Is it the joy of your birthday?’

He chuckles, the single wet trail marking a spot on the back of his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why are you saying this, my son?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yuzuru?’

‘I am sorry.’

‘What is wrong, Yuzuru?’

‘I’m so sorry.’ He dares not to move, except for the ascending hiccoughs and the whitening knuckles of his fists. ‘Please forgive me.’

It is already morning when he returns to his room, hair dripping wet from the shower, towel wrapped around his hips. The streets are bustling with honks of jammed cars and races against the traffic green and red lights. Some children are singing carols loudly as they walked along the pavement towards their schools, lucky charms and chimes on their bags and skateboards shrilling on iron handles of aerial bridges.

On top of his pillow is his phone, screen blackened but the purple LED flashes every five seconds – a warning for an incoming message.

‘DID YOU HURT YOURSELF, MY YUZU?’

The sun postpones its plans for holidays and the tryst with the cumulus clouds has the day jumbled between a clear plain of linen puffs and drizzles on fallen leaves. The drops clatter on the rooftop of Toronto Cricket’s Club, the rink is in a thrilling muteness though. There is no rule for priority lanes and possession of the space, but all the skaters are already standing on the side, their motion halted and gazes locked on him.

Yuzuru stands on the side, near the full-length mirrors, his back facing the copious multi-national flags, and he nods pointedly to the sound technician by the cascade of CDs and speakers. The first notes on the violin and viola duo transport him to a world only he knows.

My beloved, where are you?

The left arm extends to grab… what? Air that slips his fingers. His legs chase the promise that they have made… when? In their past lives, under the terminal cherry blossom of the desert of their tombs.

Can you still hear me, my love?

The inner edge on the eagle spread connects with the twizzle and he lunges forwards, fingertips trying to grasp the last ashes before the wind robs him of the memory.

And the tempest does.

The loop is but a trick to lead him astray, the bracket a mocking snigger of his affection. Why can’t he? A counter. Why? Outer edge, change of foot, a rocker… someone is standing there.

My beloved…

Who are you?

Who am I?

The short instrumental piece ends the same time he picks the ice and his pace slows, arms embracing his own torso, the apparition with no name pressed against his chest. The claps of the audience are louder than the music and all the skaters, novice, juniors, fellow seniors, they all swarm to him, the force of his gravity impossible to resist.

‘Is this your new program?’

‘That’s was magnificent! Can I record the next time you do it?’

‘Yuzuru! Teach me that chasse you did at the end. Pretty please!’

He tastes salt, the drops of sweat falling to his lips when he smiles to the children, dreams of winning tournaments and grand prix assignments glistening in their eyes. The young man pats a few of the heads, mushroom cuts like the one he had had once, a few strands caught on the fabric of his gloves, and he gently orders the kids to return to their skating skills lesson before Tracy chastises them to clean the ice.

‘Teach me too, _Yuzu_.’ He knows he has never been fate’s favorite son when the Latin lisps are shouted from the boards. ‘Like _we_ used to do.’

Brown hair, darker now, old bark of cinnamon that peels off for powder, but same curls, a hybrid between a dog and cat, Javier leans over the cushioned top next to Brian, who is animatedly telling him about something Yuzuru can’t hear (and would not want to hear). He must not meet his gaze, treacherous spells bathing in the eyes, and yet he knows he has been cursed for his afterlife already.

‘Are you happy with what you just did?’ Ghislain taps his shoulder, the hook of reality he internally begged for, and the fingers trail up to the exposed neck as the older coach comes to his field of vision. ‘Since you’re not yet breathless, how about we practice a few more quads?’

‘The quad A–’

‘No more Axels for today.’ Yuzuru pouts in protest but he concedes defeat as his hair is ruffled, as usual in their angry instructor and obstinate pupil pretense. ‘The edge of Lutz has become shallower though.’

‘It has not! It’s a lie.’ It takes only a couple of crossovers to gain speed and a breach in the coordinated cooldown strokes class for the runway he needs, outside edge that his boot basically scrapes the ice and a toe pick to shatter the solidified water, four complete rotations later, Yuzuru is back to Ghislain’s circle, twenty percent arrogance, seventy percent pride and the remaining portion waiting for recognition.

‘I have never doubted your jumps. And I’ll never will.’ The courtesy bow is as cheeky as his child-like grin. ‘Go, training is finished for today.’

‘Just one more…’, the young man flees before he is caught, ‘I promise!’

To say that Ghislain has a patience of steel is an understatement. If Yuzuru was a gazelle treading wildly in the savannah of his skates, the coach could only be the desiccated weeds, eternally chasing for the shadow of the sprint of that animal. It is just one more jump, the pact not violated, but the air conditioning in the venue is miscalculated and the ice is a landmine with invisible valleys. It’s too late when he leaps in the air, the edge of the blade slipping further out than necessary and the weight on his axis shifted, transferred to the wrong leg.

Yuzuru falls, like an angel who falls from Eden, unaware of the rough mortal path ready to devour him. The scar of the hook is carved on the surface, too bent, too twisted for his ankle to dodge the blow, and a sharp cry escapes his lips. The shaved snowy scraps are bitter and the frigidness soaks into his dark garments to the bones.

‘Yuzuru!’

It is just a tumble, every child must dive before they run, and who is he to complain about it? There is no ache that is foreign for him, and none that will. A pair of arms encircle him though, he knows each muscle of them, the rhythm of the pulse in them, and yet they are so forlornly alien. He straightens his back, ready to stand up on his own, like he always did, when the newly arrived stranger carries him, a hint of ire in his breath.

‘Put me down, Javier.’

‘So stupid, _my_ Yuzu.’

And he dashes out of the rink, to the shower room, the shouts of all of those present mere noises forgotten in the growing distance.

‘Why do you have to hurt yourself?’ Javier returns with a pristine white towel and a few patches of ice, every corner of the club his marked territory, each blind spot of the CCTV cameras his favorite hideouts. He kneels in front of Yuzuru and unties the concatenation of knots on the boot. ‘Do you want to hurt me too?’

‘It has nothing to do with y–’, he clenches his teeth when his bare foot is lifted to rest on the other’s thigh, fingertips feeling the swelling patch of skin around the cartilage of his ankle, red from being confined and from the impact just now, ‘you don’t need to do this.’

‘Tch.’ The click of tongue is synchronized with the cold press on the bruise. ‘Should I just do nothing?’

‘Yes.’ Run. Run before he locks you on the highest tower with no stairs. ‘This is my problem.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ The question has echoed many times in his mind too.

‘Why do you have to be so stupid?’

‘I–’, Yuzuru tries to retrieve his foot but the hold around it is of a platinum padlock that he has no key, ‘let me go, Javier.’

‘Why? Why am I only Javier now? You were not like this, my Yuzu.’ The Spaniard presses harder on the injury, veins popping on the back of his hand, knuckles turning white. ‘Are you moving on? Is that it? Moving on without me?’

The hiss is almost a moan as he grips the top of the bench, on the verge of slipping to the tiled floor. ‘It hurts.’ The medical patch is liquid already, condensation forming on the expiry date, but the raw frostiness is no less than before and it numbs his skin until it hurts. ‘Please, Javier.’ The other man shakes his head, smiling, though his eyes leak no sympathy. The ice is replaced by moist lips, on his ankle, a kiss, the heel, another peck. A faint caress on the sole of his foot, a lick from the arch to the ball, and Javier sucks on each of his toes, his worshipping prayer. There is a shiver from his spine but he too catches it and drinks of it. ‘Please stop, _Javi_.’

He does not.

Even with the darkest Under Armor, Yuzuru has never felt more naked, shame masked by the tingling fever on his cheeks. The residual coldness on the uninvited guest’s fingertips penetrates to his muscles when scratching through the fabric of his pants, shin, hamstring, his kneecap, _higher_ , he thinks to himself, he opens his legs more, just slightly more, and the hands travel to his inner thigh, pinching the softness there.

‘ _Please J_ –’

‘Javier?’ Brian’s voice is no louder than the knock on the locker room. ‘Is Yuzuru with you? Can I come in?’

‘Can he?’ The Spaniard whispers, his thumb brushing the mount in Yuzuru’s crotch. ‘Do you want him to see how much you want me?’

‘ _Fuck you_.’

The young man kicks him a few inches away, embarrassment fueling his panic to escape. His whole body is in heat, so much, so much he thinks he might turn to ashes the moment he stands up. And yet he doesn’t, it only falters his balance, but he yanks the arm that catches his elbow for support. ‘Don’t touch me again, Javier.’ There is pain injected in his ankle, sting of a scorpion and needles of cactus, but the adrenaline is the best temporary anesthesia. He has not time to tuck the boots into his sports bag and he storms out of the closed space, a mess of blade guards, towel, jacket and water bottle to his chest, the greeting to Brian forgotten as well.

It is Friday.

The weather report that morning warned about haze by the end of the day, with north to easterly wind gusts, and temperatures on the single digits. The sky is almost silver though, whether it is from sneezes of the sun or dust from the moon he knows not, but there is no droughts and the humidity clings to his silhouette as a second skin. A single butterfly of rain poises on his forehead and Yuzuru accelerates his pace, his umbrella forgotten at home. The nearest bus station by the corner of the trade coffee shop is empty and he lays his training sack on the bench.

The young man glances at the watch tied on his wrist. It is perhaps still too early for the daily marathon of the white collars against the relay of the transportation system, or perhaps today is the international day of unpaid overtime workers. Maybe he should call _him_ , just how he promised he would the last time they had been together. It is Friday and Ghislain had forbidden him to come tomorrow to the club, the excuse being that the synchronized skating team had booked it for the whole weekend, no negotiations possible.

The number is not hard to find (it is just that he doesn’t remember under what name he had saved it), and he swipes the screen waiting for it to go through.

‘…’

It is absolute silence and the call is cut the moment the device is near his ear. Yuzuru thinks he might have pressed something wrong but he notices that he has no coverage signal. Strange, he doesn’t remember skipping any bills or having the phone dropped on the toilet or from the top of a building. The bus arrives promptly on the time marked on the laminated schedule and he hops in, the issue ignored for now as he pays for the journey.

It is not full but there are barely any empty seats left, and the young man sits on the first row after the courtesy ones, a pregnant woman chatting happily with her husband, his hand resting on her enlarged belly, their matched rings complementing the smiles on their faces. The man in the three- piece navy blue suit leaning on the window on the opposite side seems to have caught his gaze and winks.

‘Is it not yet night and you’re already flirting?’

The voice is directed at him and only at him, the troubadour whisper on his ears, the blazing breath on his nape. Javier’s scent, the cologne of pine and lime balm, has not changed, and Yuzuru knows it smells just like a premediated ambush.

And the fragrance of their bodies joined as one.

And home.

‘Won’t you look at me, my Yuzu?’ He refuses to turn back and pretends to check a message on his phone. ‘Ah, you are the concubine and we mere peasants. Egoist, my Yuzu. You are so selfish, my princess.’

The Spaniard’s reflection on the window is blurred, a badly painted watercolor canvas and his face translucent, trees, benches, lamp posts, mail boxes, they all puncture his face, one by one, further disrupting his features.

‘But you like this, don’t you?’ He doesn’t. ‘You like being watched, don’t you? You like what you are doing to him, isn’t it?

_Please stop Javier._

_Don’t._

‘You like when they fuck you in their minds, don’t you?’ He shakes his head lightly, coiling into himself more in his seat. He doesn’t want to hear it.

_No more, please._

_Don’t stop._

‘You can imagine it too, can’t you? His fingers on your tongue while the cuff links, platinum, my Yuzu, tease your nipples. He can’t dirty his suit, Yuzu, his is heading for an important meeting or he will be the laughing pig in his department. But you can, my Yuzu, so he has already taken off your shirt and you’re already on your knees on this seat. It’s not velvet like you love but you can endure it.’

_Javier, you are not like this. Please stop._

_Continue._

‘He is big, Yuzu, so hard, and pressing against you. You want to beg him but he tells you to suck harder. And you obey. Do you know why, _my_ Yuzu?’

_I don’t. I don’t. I don’t._

_You do._

‘Because when he drives into you, you can only think of me. I am the one who is filling you. It is my name when you moan and beg for air. You are so tight, Yuzu, and you are crying. I love your tears, Yuzu. I love when you want me to break you. And when you come, _ahh_ , I–’

He raises both his hands, his palms covering his ears. _No more_ , he tells himself, _no more_ , he implores. It is the disgust for the discomfort between his legs and he is terrified of the end of the story, of wanting to quench these quivers on his temples, on his chest, on his lower back. It is just sex, he lies to himself, just a physiological response.

_But there is lust too, Yuzuru. And you want to taste that as well._

_You miss home._

‘Let’s get out of here.’

The next stop comes almost as per request. He trips from the abrupt tug on his arm, but Javier’s embrace plants him on the cement ground as they pass the sliding doors. The vehicle continues its journey. It is the shadows of two of them that are left behind.

Yuzuru would be lying if he said it was the first time in the apartment. The bell next to the number of the flat, the oval mat at the entrance with a few Spanish phrases that he hasn’t bothered to translate, the scratches on the leather sofa because Javier still refuses to cut Effie’s nails, the smell of cheap cigarettes and ground coffee beans from the kitchen.

‘Don’t just stand there. Or…’, the scarf dishevels the hazelnut locks as he unravels the cloth, keys thrown aimlessly to the coffee table, ‘are you scared of being here?’

The young man takes a step forward, into the unknown. Into the walls that don’t seem to be as bright as daffodil petals anymore; or the magazines that have all the covers ripped from the spine and the folders with loose leaves of mathematical formulae; the stains of candlewax on the wooden flooring and the half-empty bottles of green tea next to the TV. And an electronic keyboard on the corner, hidden by the grey blinds.

It is a cacophony the decoration of the house, the clash of hues, the play of light and refractions, the post-modern and the antique. It is a mess, a beautiful mess, Yuzuru chuckles, so alien and far-fetched, and yet so familiar, so plainly mundane.

So intimate.

It is all Javier. All hard bricks on soft waters, the grotesque and the minimalism, the Cubist notebook on the toreador’s cape, the leftover tortilla on Effie’s stainless steel bowl, the expresso mugs in the sink. It is all him too, vanilla incense on the lamps, the Grand Prix silver medal to his gold, the purple feathered _atrapasueños_. It is almost claustrophobic, the fridge where the strawberry shortcake is, the shower that is never hot no matter which season.

The ruffled bedsheets where they would make love. Or the raw marble of the kitchen counter on their naked backs. Or the window panes vaguely lighted by the moonlight and clouded by their hectic (excited) pants.

He clutches the fabric on his forearms, fingers digging into the muscle there.

It is suffocating.

He remembers everything.

_I can’t breathe._

‘I missed you, Yuzuru.’ He flinches at the sudden proximity of their bodies but the Spaniard doesn’t touch him. ‘I miss you so much, my Yuzu.’

He sits by the piano instead. The young man notices how the confidence from the bus journey until this moment is dissolved instantly, Javier’s shoulders subtly trembling. The first notes are isolated, feeble touches on the white keys, the pressure so wrong there is almost no sound. The rhythm is sparse, the melody broken, but Yuzuru recognizes it.

A string plucked from the shamisen. Double beats on the taiko. The chant of the onmyouji. The last cry of the demon which laughs at maidens in love.

The hymn of a warrior.

‘What do you want, Javier?’

 _Seimei_ continues, the battle almost to its climax. There is no response besides the amateurish performance, the absence both discomforting and a relief. The spirits have returned to their graves, the souls to the next reincarnation, and so must he depart before the night arrives.

‘Why can’t I?’ It is only half step taken but Javier catches his elbow and swiftly turns him to the body of the instrument, trapping his slender waist. The demand on the keys is deafening loud, the bass pitches bellowing an impromptu curse. ‘Why can they? Why can’t I?’, a feral gaze, it is the eyes of a lion turned against its master. ‘What else can I do? What more do you want, Yuzu?’

‘Javi–’

The pair of lips that crash onto his are chapped but cotton soft, a hint of hot cocoa and mint tobacco on the tongue that violates his mouth. He can hardly breathe, Javier drinking of his saliva and air. He tries to push the Spaniard away but the force on his wrists almost twists his bones, hitting the white and black keys in a horror cadence. ‘Javi–’, their teeth cut the skin, the taste of metallic red both sickening and inciting. Yuzuru can feel the pink flesh devouring him, licking the palate and pushing his own, and he wants more.

No, he wants to escape.

It is tainted. He will rot alive.

No, he wants more.

So much more.

Of him.

Of Javier.

No.

Inside and outside.

Yes.

On his mouth and in him.

No.

Buried in the depths of his body.

Yes.

No.

_Yes._

A knee rubs against his crotch and Yuzuru loses balance, gravity pulling both him and the Spaniard to the bench, he straddling his hips, both their erections touching as if there were no barriers of zippers and jeans between them.

‘Tell me, Yuzu,’ the words are between gasps for oxygen and flowing desire, ‘tell me you don’t want this.’

‘Ja–’

‘Tell me this is…’, Javier bites the bobbing Adam’s apple, the dry swallow that follows, the poking bud of nipple through the training gear, ‘this is not a dream. Tell me this is real.’

‘Javier,’ each syllable is a moan when the canines sink on the skin on his sternum, right on top of his heart, the stubble on his chin tickling the exposed collarbones as he nudges for a returning bite while their joined hands descend to his pelvis, ‘it’s too late.’

‘It’s not too late!’ The sheer volume startles him, desperation laced in every passing millisecond. ‘It was not my choice. It wasn’t!’

‘What are y–’, he shuts his eyes tightly when fingers wrap around the tip of his manhood, the violence and the carnal lechery tearing what is left of his reason.

‘Look at me, Yuzu. Look at this.’ He refuses, shaking his head, the shame will gnaw his whole being and spit nothing in the aftermath, Yuzuru thinks, only when he feels the same convulsive pulse on his palm, the same thick heat, and the white wetness running on the ridges of his fingers, both their essences coating each other’s sex. ‘It wasn’t me, Yuzu! It wasn’t. Who can I blame?’

‘No one. No–’, it hurts, the nails grazing at his length, slit to base. It hurts, and yet he wants Javier to scar him, mark him, for when the day comes he will…, ‘it is not your fault, Ja–’

The Spaniard grips them ruthlessly harder, the ache shooting straight to their spines. He leans forward to lick the drop of sweat on Yuzuru’s cheek, the fury of his caress seeping through the pores, and the young man pushes him away before he can claim his lips again.

He doesn’t mean it. Not this way. Not with this might, but the momentum is wrong and they both slip. The fall seems to be endless, time infinite and space non-existent, until the floor materializes to mock him, his ankle seizing the impact.

It hurts.

Please save me.

‘Yuzu–’, Javier kneels next to him but the frail silhouette cowers at the sight of the approaching hand. ‘Wh-why?’, it shatters into pieces, his or Javier’s, Yuzuru knows not. ‘Why? Why are you scared? Why can’t I touch you?’ The fingertips hover on top of his cheek, mere inches from contact but never touching. ‘I am only doing what you want me to do, Yuzu.’

‘We should have never done this, _Javi_.’

‘Just one word, Yuzu. Just one word and I’ll do anything you want. Anything.’ A solitary tear falls from the Spaniard’s eyes. ‘You are the one controlling me, Yuzu.’

‘Then,’ he catches the drop on Javier’s face, ‘this is enough. Don’t do it anymore.’ He stands, gaze unfaltering, shirt wrinkled and pants barely hanging by the hips. He meticulously fixes his attire, pray the other man won’t see his trembling figure.

‘Are you…’, Javier too stands but he does nothing to deter him, ‘leaving?’

‘Yes.’ _This is goodbye, Javi_. ‘You don’t have to follow this anymore. I set you free, Javier.’

The front door closes with a final thud. He leans his forehead on the wooden plank, his hand unable to let the knob go. It is mild and almost mute but Yuzuru swears he can hear the sobs and the manic laughing on the other side.

Or perhaps it is his own.


End file.
